


Calefaction

by oceansinmychest



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, Gratuitous Smut, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex Toys, Smut, Voyeurism, light banter, vibrating borg hand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-14 15:35:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29794086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: (n.) the act of heating; a heated state.Seven catches Janeway in the act.
Relationships: Kathryn Janeway/Seven of Nine
Comments: 4
Kudos: 38





	Calefaction

**Author's Note:**

> Special shoutout to my pal, TheLexFiles on ao3, for the "her Kathryn" phrase while she's been experimenting with Seven's voice. You inspire me, friend! 
> 
> Whoever invented the headcanon of a vibrating Borg hand as a trope, I thank you profusely.
> 
> Anyways, there's no plot - neither rhyme nor reason - to this smutty encounter that occupies my mind rent-free. May y'all enjoy.

Through an earlier exchange during the day shift, her dear friend Mr. Tuvok riddles the Captain’s reasoning with bulletproof logic: qualms about reaching the Alpha Quadrant slip into the abyss, a place beyond the sea of stars that they all drown in. Yet, here in her private refuge – her makeshift sanctuary while stranded in the Delta Quadrant – Kathryn’s mind abandons the tenets of command, chasing a momentary reprieve, a sense of feeling something _other_ than crippling despair.

Laying in bed, dark blue eyes flit to the ceiling, to the fluorescent lights that objectify her body without any mercy. She clings to some semblance of modesty in a silken nightgown that rises ever higher to expose the curve of a muscular thigh. Beneath her, the sheets wrinkle. Slither down with serpentine deviousness.

Into the silence, above the hum of the ship’s engines (an ambient white noise she’s come to love), she speaks.

“Come to report your findings?” Captain Janeway (Kathryn, _her_ Kathryn) quips, face turned to drink in the beauty gracing her bedside. From desire’s affect, her voice thickens. Lowers a notch. Her hair sprawls across the over-fluffed pillow, as haphazard as hungry flames.

Unveiled privacy favors this shared sense of intimacy. Here in the Captain’s bedroom, grey sheets obscure greyer days.

Very nearly do Seven of Nine’s pretty, pink lips curl upright, a ghostly affliction that’s there one moment and gone the next. Ever so slightly, her Astrometrics officer cranes her neck. Tilts her head in a mechanical motion that mimics human pattern.

“My research indicates that you exhibit symptoms of a libidinous nature,” Seven reflects in what resembles cool indifference.

Granted the perfect view, Seven notes her observations internally. Something to tuck away for safekeeping in that cortical node of hers while she regenerates. Comprised of organic matter, the Captain succumbs to mammalian mating instincts: a ritual that seeks eminent relief. Arousal, accompanying a hint of Catholic guilt, tinges Kathryn’s cheeks.

“And you, Seven, are quite facetious,” comes the Captain’s rebuttal after an arduous pant, a deep breath turned into a sigh. She raises a brow, light and shadow painting her pale face in an aesthetically pleasing manner.

It’s a sight Seven will never forget. It brands her vision, sears her overworking mind in flashes capturing every minute detail perfectly.

In a mimicry of _The Ecstasy of Saint Teresa_ , Kathryn parts her wine-stained lips when a mask of pleasure adorns her pale face. Her lashes curl to frame her deep blue eyes now welled shut. With her legs parted at an obscene angle, revealing herself to the point of indecency, one heel dips into the mattress and her other sole keeps firmly planted. In her steeled grasp, Kathryn clutches a small, silver bullet that whirrs, increases velocity to carry her over the edge.

Amidst the deafening silence, the vibrator hums all too enthusiastically. Desperate to release all that tension, she holds that icy stare aimed in her direction with laser precision as she fucks herself. A low moan slithers out as she bucks her hips. Then, Seven grips her upper thigh, feels muscle twitch and shift. Oh, how the touch grounds Kathryn and in the exchange, she forgets that she’s Captain aboard a Federation vessel. In her bedroom, she can pretend that she’s in her flat in San Francisco, in her childhood home in Indiana, in Paris for a night to visit Phoebe. Seven _is_ the constant. Always, Seven is with her. By her side, unwavering, stubborn in her own right, but so valorous and so unapologetically genuine as herself.

The thought snaps her back into her present reality. Beneath the veil of thin fabric, a rivulet of sweat slithers down her chest, between her breasts, and down her quivering belly. That scarlet flush decorates her petite frame, her wiry limbs, and highlights the freckles like constellations that coat her shoulders, that flutter across her chest below her décolletage, that tickle the bridge of her nose.

Rather than remaining ramrod straight, her arms folded behind her back, Seven perches herself on the edge of the bed. From above, she looks below. A metal encased thumb and forefinger pinch Janeway’s stern, noble jawline before slithering to follow the curve of her chin. The crook of her neck touches the edge of the over-fluffed pillow. How the muscle there grows tense. The chord jumps out, begging to be bitten. 

Another time, she intends to follow through with this foreign concept of animal instinct. For now, she files away what Kathryn deems to be “desire” or “an urge” to test, to challenge, in a different setting. Tonight, at approximately 2:39 AM, does not entail a heated debate, a philosophical conversation where they tease out endless possibilities. Tonight, Kathryn seeks distraction, liberation, and so, Seven aims to provide. To give just as she has been given.

Engaged in ars erotica – to discover the truth underlying such carnal delights – overshadows the reminder of who and what Seven had been as well as the ghostly vestiges of what survives. After all, the Borg convey an information-driven society: the voracious consumption of knowledge masquerades as a game of claim and conquer.

How bizarre, how intriguing human rituals prove to be.

An unoccupied hand flits to Seven’s clothed leg, her body entombed in a maroon biosuit, that shade of red connotative of heat, of damnation, of the blood pumping through their veins, of the string of fate that binds them.

In an expression comparable to mild surprise, Seven’s glacial stare flits down to the slender palm that runs along her thigh. She watches the pull and flex of tendons, the steady curve of fingers, as Kathryn’s wrist starts to shake.

Through the kinesthetic value of a frenetic touch, there lies tissue embedded within all that circuitry. Part woman, part machine, she’ll always be destined to waltz between two worlds.

Boldly, Seven makes an assessment with a haughty tilt of her chin.

“The repetitive strokes to your labia are insufficient-”

As a warning, Kathryn shoots her a look. Fires away.

“-But enticing,” Seven concludes.

Seven is no tabula rasa; she catches on and catches on well. Beneath her sealed lips, she licks her teeth that rival the color of a crescent moon: so blindingly white.

“I enjoy working myself up. Building anticipation, Seven.”

Kathryn’s heady little chuckle tickles her auditory senses in the most curious way. 

In dire need of relief, she gyrates her hips while nudging the toy against her clit. She works herself up into a panting, sweaty mess. All the while, the two of them make eyes like teenagers rolling around in the hay.

… Which begs the question—

How _often_ has she denied herself and edged herself?

“The purpose of this device is to reach orgasm intent on self-gratification,” she notes, sprawling out lithe and feline-esque beside her Captain.

Seven detects the tang of her sweat, her scent, her arousal, and her pervasive perfume. She plays the role of innocent, perhaps to feed into Janeway’s hero-cum-savior complex.

“See for yourself,” the Captain offers.

Bequeathed from her militant edge, the telltale rattle and rasp of her voice succumbs to ardent desire.

So, Seven acts with a sudden ferocity, a graceful glide, that compels Janeway to gasp.

Shallowly, Seven traces a nail over the curve of her belly, down to graze the coarse curls between her legs before sliding along her wetness. Just like that, her wandering touch vanishes. Akin to a cat, she licks Janeway’s essence, that heady taste, from her curved finger.

“Status report.”

Pulling rank like this is a joke, a sham. Without judgment, Kathryn teases. Seven bites back with her own sense of humor, off-beat and unique.

"Oral senses indicate an acrid taste, a component comparable to sodium chloride.” She tastes creamy, earthy, something that Seven cannot describe through lyricism. “-I believe your distinct taste is close enough to Nutritional Supplement #456, or _butter_ , as you referred to, Kathryn.”

To compliment her praise masqueraded as jargon, Seven leans forward, her shadow stretched over the compact body of the Captain. There, she burrows her face into the juncture between her shoulder and neck where she places a reverent kiss before recoiling. Kathryn’s scent represents an alluring aphrodisiac: clean skin and pervasive floral perfume, artificial yet pungent. As potent as it is damning.

Seven teases. Pushes her buttons and when she’s about to offer a glare as rebuttal, that cocky grin threatens to usurp Kathryn entirely.

“Resistance has never been futile, like elementary, dear Seven. I give myself to you willingly,” Kathryn declares rather easily as she strokes herself, caresses the molten heat between her legs, disguised as a silent offering.

This behavior, Seven deduces, is charisma.

Humanity, Seven finds, is rife with contradictions as she arches a golden brow. From the gesture, her ocular implant lifts, then lowers, similar to the waves of a forgotten shore that Kathryn so often reminisces about half past midnight.

Quaking thighs usher Kathryn closer to the edge, to reaching that satisfying conclusion. She works the toy back and forth against her hardened clit, across her soaked slit. Coarse curls between her legs glisten from arousal. For good measure, or to entertain Seven’s voyeuristic stare, she dips the vibrator inside, albeit shallowly.

In this shared engagement, Seven reacts just as well as she reacts. Like an angel, the light catches her hair – bestows her with a golden halo, but Kathryn knows better than to deify those she cares for, as her lover takes the toy away from her. Replaces that vibrator with the steady sprawl of Seven’s metal-encased hand claiming her cunt.

Long, slender fingers chart the territory of her most intimate places. Without warning, Seven slips inside, to the knuckle.

At the act of possession, she gasps. Now, Janeway peers up at her little Borg ingenue in wonder. Her lips form a silent O of surprise, never mockery. As if lulled by the mechanical hum, Kathryn tosses her head back. Exposes her throat. 

Soon enough, she ruts against Seven’s hand, desperate to come undone. Deeper, Seven takes her; harder, she thrusts. She feels ridiculous with her nightgown hitched above her hips, her nipples taut and begging to be played with, but the sleep apparel is forgotten in favor of how Seven flicks her wrist. She finds herself wetter than she's ever been and so **damn** willing.

As if possessed, the Captain reacts. Thrusts her hips. Arches her back. Is it _ever_ enough?

That’s Kathryn Janeway for you: patient until she’s rendered impatient.

Louder, Janeway becomes, either as a testament to the human condition or to produce a cacophony of cries that tear her from the haunt of the uniform.

Conflict carves her into something, someone, far from reputable. Trembling with her mouth agape, she unravels. The pressure builds until it’s more than she can take. Like a lightning rod, her body grows taut. Straightens, stiffens. Kathryn ignores the cramps riddling her upper thigh, assailing her buttocks, in favor of the pulsing rhythm of her sex. Contractions ripple through her until they subside. Those steady pulsations dissipate.

Winded, rendered breathless and deathless, she collapses, body floating on Cloud Nine.

After her accelerated heartbeat slows, she moans at the loss of those skilled fingers leaving her body, wiping fluid across her thighs. Rather coquettishly, Seven licks the rest from her fingertips. That flush threatens to claim Kathryn’s body once more. Instead, she laughs and falls back, awaiting Seven to wrap around her, to wed their bodies together as a single unit.

Kathryn laughs until she remembers how to breathe again and Seven watches until she remembers how to move, were it not for the flames of passion that have stricken her.

Onto her side, she rolls. Buries her grinning face into Seven's neck where she bestows her with a playful nip above the collar of her biosuit.

"Poor thing," Kathryn coos, teases. "Let me take care of you."

As equals, Seven complies and peels that infernal catsuit from her body, exposed in a rare vulnerability that invites Kathryn - not the Captain - to worship her as a relic, a work of art, as an _individual_.


End file.
